


Awake

by ImaRavenclaw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bullying, Discrimination, M/M, breaking up, quidditch victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaRavenclaw/pseuds/ImaRavenclaw
Summary: I let myself fall into this dream, this unreality, when I’m with Oliver.But it has to stop, because when I awake I face the consequences.For hedwig1751’s Random Prompt ChallengePrompt: Quidditch Victory Party





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a bipolar character, so if anything was represented poorly, wrongly handled, overly-stereotypical, or not socially correct, then I would love it if you let me know in the comments! As such, this could potentially be incorrectly written.
> 
> Thanks!

It’s 3:30 in the morning, and I lie in bed awake. This isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last time. Downstairs a party of triumph for the Gryffindor quidditch players rage on. Clearly none of the other fourth years are concerned with the face that most of us have an important exam tomorrow. I try to fall asleep but my body just will not give in with all of the ruckus downstairs, and I eventually can’t take it anymore. Angrily, I throw the covers off of my body, wrap myself in a red robe, and storm out of the dorm.

 

The old oak stairs echo under my feet as I stomp angrily towards the celebration.

 

“Well look who decided to join the party,” one of the older students roars, hoisting both of his hands, one of which is holding a beer. “If it isn’t the studious Weasley.”

 

I scan the room for Fred and George, knowing that if there here they’ll be quick to defend me with some of their ridiculous jokes like ‘better not make fun of him. He’s going for Minister. He might bloody well turn you into his personal slave’. They’re only second years, and yet the whole of Gryffindor reveres them for there hilarious practical jokes and inventions. I can’t seem to find them, and knowing them they’re probably setting stink bombs off in Slytherin.

 

I’m use to this kind of harassment by now. All of the Gryffindors want me in Ravenclaw just so that they don’t have to deal with a party-kill. I’m clearly the least liked Weasley, which isn’t such a fun roll to play since outside of Gryffindor House and a couple other people, no one likes us at all. I get on alright with some Ravenclaws, but the camaraderie ends there. 

 

Last year, Charlie would stick up for whenever, but he’s gone now so no can do.

 

The remarks start to come after that popular seventh year jerk “welcomed” me to the party. “Are we interrupting your beauty sleep?” One of them laughs nastily.

 

“Maybe it was your studying. You stay up studying this late, Percy? No wonder your only friends are your brothers.”

 

“Or perhaps you were wanking, since you’ll never go ‘round with a real girl.” It’s been mostly older students so far, but next they look to Oliver Wood, who wants the captaincy of the team passed down to him next year more than anything, and expect something from him. He gets a weird look on his face, and I find that for once I cannot read a person. I’ve always been able to read people.

 

“Girl?” He says eventually, after some thought. “Of course he doesn’t think about girls. Guy like that, doesn’t even try. He’s obviously a fag.” The room erupts with laughter, and only a few people don’t join in; they just give me looks of pity.

 

I’d rather be made fun of than pitied any day.

 

Oliver laughs hard, so hard. His laughter is so thunderous that the room shakes with it and he holds his stomach in pain. But when he stops to catch his breath, his eyes meet mine and all I can see is something that can’t be described in only one word.

 

I whip around and walk as calmly up the steps as I can, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

 

This is worse than being hit, or shoved, or even thrown into a wall. This is worse than that, because I let him see into my thoughts, even if it was only briefly.

 

I shake, terrified that he knows. Terrified that he glimpsed and saw,

 

I’ve always looked at _him_.

 

 

 

*

 

 

The next night I finally get some sleep, and the night after as well, and for the whole rest of the week I sleep sound, despite the fear that’s eating at me.

 

However, one night I’m not falling asleep. No matter how much I move any part of my body, I cannot seem to get comfortable. Eventually I’m almost drifting asleep when I hear a loud thump come from downstairs.

 

I shoot up and look around the room. No one else seems to have heard, and I don’t bother to wake them up. I don’t need more remarks about being up later than everyone else studying than I can actually deal with. So, I go downstairs on my own.

 

And I find Oliver, sitting on one of the sofas with his quidditch plays, madly circling things. That is, surprisingly, the first thing I notice. I say surprisingly because as I look around, I notice that the entire common room has been rearranged.

 

When he sees me Oliver looks shocked and embarrassed, but quickly adjusts his face to look calm. “Hi,” he says. “Um, I couldn’t sleep so I just thought I’d come work on plays down here, and the room was just randomly rearranged.”

 

I can tell that he’s lying, at least about the second part, but I don’t see why he would feel the need to lie.

 

He gets up and puts his plays on the couch, then comes over to me. “Hey, about the party, I’m really sorry for what I said. I was a dick, and I shouldn’t bully you just to get credit with the older guys.”

 

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.” I reply, a little more bitterly than I meant it.

 

“So, you can’t sleep?” He asks, completely disregarding the tone I used to answer him.

 

I shrug in response.

 

“Well then why don’t you help me put all of this furniture back in place? I’m feeling rather productive tonight!”

 

 

*

 

 

The next three months are rather uneventful. Gryffindor has lost its past match, and the team is training harder than ever. Nothing has been very interesting lately, but I’ve been noticing more and more how strange Oliver has been acting since the night we rearranged furniture and he lied to me about… Something, I don’t know what or why.

 

First of all he takes up the new hobby of collecting and reading classic muggle books like Jane Austen’s works and The Great Gatsby, which he drops after about a week or two. Now the books are just sitting around with no one to read them. And what’s worse is that he spent an unruly amount of money on them.

 

Second, the last three times there’s been any kind of party, he hasn’t come into the dorm unless he’s stumbling in drunk.

 

And third, he’s not sleeping whatsoever.

 

Eventually, this behaviour evens out, but I’m still worried about what’s going on with him. He’s clearly hiding something. And I know that it’s none of my business, since he clearly doesn’t have a care in the world for me, but the problem that I can’t let go of no matter how hard I try, is that I have every care for him.

 

Surprisingly, the next time Gryffindor wins and I hear of the victory party, I decide to go. And I don’t know if it’s because Oliver will be there, or if I just want to try and be fun for once.

 

The result is me in the back of a room with no one to talk to. I watch as older students chug firewhiskey and Oliver has one or two shots as well. Couples snog around the room and occasionally there are chants of different players names as they’re raised for a crowd surf. Red and gold are the dominating colours of the evening, and anything you can see is in these colours. Eventually however, I’m not longer alone watching the room, as Oliver comes over to me and elbows me. “You shouldn’t be here if you’re not going to dance, or have fun, or drink. You’re kind of killing the mood Weasley.”

 

“I don’t know why I came here, okay?” I say angrily, raising my hands and starting to storm off. I speed walk out of the room and into the corridor. Walking away from the Common Room, I do my best to keep myself from crying. When I turn the corner, I hear running footsteps chasing me down, so I wipe my tears and keep walking.”

 

“Wait!” I hear Oliver protest, his footsteps still thumping against the stone floors. I try to keep walking, but he’s fitter than me, and also running, so he does catch up. He grabs my wrist and spins me around. “Why did you come tonight?” He asks me.

 

“Leave me alone!” I say angrily, trying to wrench away from him.

 

“Why?” He presses.

 

“Why do you act so fucking weird all the time?!” I shout angrily in return. I immediately regret the words when I feel the bitter aftertaste in my mouth. He looks horrified, like a scared puppy. And then his face tightens into a frown, and he draws his hand back, hitting me square in the face. My nose is hot with blood as I stumble back a little. Not even thinking, when I regain my balance I’m impulsive. I grab a fist full of his shirt, and smoosh my face angrily into his. I am so utterly out of breath when, after a few moments, he kisses me back.

 

We move our mouths around each other’s furiously. Oliver pushes me into one of the stone walls and continues pressing his lips to mine aggressively. I slide me leg in between both of his, and he moans loudly at the contact.

 

“How long have you—ungh—liked me?” He asks, in between furious kisses.

 

“Who, uh, says I like you?” I ask in return, breathing hard.

 

“I can just tell,” says Oliver deviously. Blood dribbles down my chin, but I ignore it in favour of nipping Oliver’s ear. The blood does become annoying though, so I wipe my robe sleeve across my face and continue in the action I’ve only dreamt about.

 

When Oliver and I finally pull apart, our shirts are both soaked with blood and cheeks flushed just as red. Oliver grins, chuckling to himself. But then his expression changes and he shuts his eyes tightly. “You can’t,” he starts, his voice shaking. “You can’t tell anyone about this.” I observe his eyes, and I can see tears fall from them.

 

“Tell me why you’ve been acting weird. What’s wrong with you?” I whisper.

 

“There’s nothing, wrong with me.” He says. “Stop asking.”

 

I take his hands, his warm soft hands. “Oliver, I’m not going to tell anyone.” I reassure him. “I’m the school outcast, even if people believed me, who do I have to tell?”

 

“It’s not that simple. I don’t need your pity.”

 

“But I won’t pity you, Oliver. I care about you. We’ve never exactly been friends, but I’ve always wanted to, well, to do what we’ve just done. And now that we’ve done that I want to talk to you. _Really_ talk to you. Get to know you. Tell me.”

 

“Fine!” He snaps. “I have a disorder. Mostly only muggles have it, but some wizards do too. Erratic moods, manic, depression. That’s all you need to know.”

 

“So, mood swings?”

 

“No.” He says simply, wiping my blood off of his chin.

 

“Is that why you punched me in the face?”

 

“The fact that I can be a prick sometimes has nothing to do with it, that’s an aspect of my personality. It has nothing to do with my mental illness.”

 

“Isn’t that called, y’know um… Bi—.”

 

“Bipolar.” He cuts me off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going back to the party.” He says dejectedly. And then after all that has just happened, he walks away.

 

 

*

 

 

I don’t see him much since the night of the victory party, but I notice that he’s still not sleeping and that he’s participating in the world with this sense of invincibility. But then, a month later, it all just stops.

 

February is freezing, and on a particularly chilly Saturday when I wake up I immediately notice the frost curling up the large window in the back of the room. Looking around the rest of the room, I see that one bed is empty, a quidditch player gone for morning practice. That’s weird, there should be two unoccupied beds. I hear thumps coming up the oak steps, so I pretend to go back to sleep. The door flies open, and three or so people come trudging into the room, all dressed in quidditch gear. I watch them, hidden in my covers, as they walk to Oliver’s bed and shake him.

 

“Lad, wake up.” One of the players says. Oliver doesn’t budge, he just rolls around and groans.

 

“I’m tired. Let me be.” He says to them quietly.

 

“Come on Oliver, we need to practice.”

 

He doesn’t answer, and continues to sleep. “There’s no point in waking up this early. We won’t win the next match anyways.”

 

“Well we bloody well won’t without you, mate. You’re just lacking the motivation. Have some breakfast, and you’ll be fine afterwards.”

 

I have to stop myself from saying, “no he won’t”, and dragging them out of the room to let him sleep. But then I think about what I’ve learned about Oliver’s disorder in the last month. This isn’t good.

 

After a while of trying to drag Oliver out of bed, his teammates leave. I get up quickly and go over to Oliver’s bedside table. I rip the drawer out of the table and look at the contents. There’s a nearly empty pill bottle and a small box. I pry the box open with nimble fingers and gasp when I see dozens of white pills exactly like the ones in the bottle inside. He hasn’t been taking his medication.

 

“Oliver,” I bark. I know that I shouldn’t get angry or aggressive with him, as it could make things worse, but I don’t know how to handle any of this. I’ve read one pamphlet hidden in a folder about muggle illnesses in the library. I’m just a teenager, I’ve only just turned fifteen. The world was so small and now it seems to have grown. Oliver doesn’t move. “I didn’t know you had medication.” I can’t stop myself, and I cry. “You have to take it,” I whimper.

 

“I’m fine. I’m just tired. Late nights. Don’t need the pills.” He mumbles, shifting. How do I handle this? I said that I wouldn’t tell anybody, and I’ve kept that promise for a month. But what if this becomes dangerous? Who do I tell? I’m terrified.

 

“Ollie please.” I don’t know why it has dawned on me to call him Ollie, but he opens his eyes a little to look at me.

 

“What did you call me?” He asks, very quietly.

 

“Take your medication and I’ll tell you.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

After a few more hours of fighting with him I get him to swallow the right dose. And as soon as he swallows he looks at me with dulled out eyes. “Now tell me what you called me.”

 

“Ollie.” I say. “I called you Ollie.”

 

He doesn’t answer for a long while, but when he does it’s sharp and bitter. “Well don’t.” He says. “Do you know what these meds do to me?” He growls, starting to cry, pushing the pill bottle (that I put all of the pills back into) into my chest. “They have insane side effects. I’d rather be crazy than put up with it. Hair loss, I tremble, I puke.”

 

“But they help you, don’t they?”

 

“Sure. If you call ruining someone’s life ‘helping.’” He says. “Now let me sleep.” And he turns and presses a pillow to his ear, seemingly trying to fall back to sleep.

 

I turn towards the dorm’s door and take a deep breath in.

We do not speak to each other for the rest of the year.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s 1992. A little over a year later, when we come into greater contact. We’ve had to speak to each other, sharing a dorm and classes, but we’ve exchanged as few words as possible.

 

But one night, after a year of watching on the sidelines again, watching Oliver hiding what he’s going through, something happens. I show up at another quidditch victory party.

 

This party is much bigger than any other Gryffindor has ever held. With the help of Harry Potter, the team’s new seeker, The Boy Who Lived, they’ve won the quidditch cup. Oliver looks the happiest I have ever seen him.

 

There are flags waving everywhere and red and gold everything. Everyone is sipping a drink and cheering at random intervals. Celebration is everywhere. Oliver is there at the beginning of the party, but as I try to find him later he’s nowhere to be found.

 

I go up to the dorm and, unexpectedly, find him there. He’s pouring over his study books.

 

“Wood?” I ask curiously.

 

“Weasley,” he says in reply, not looking away from his books. “I honestly thought that you would at least call me Oliver, considering you were brave enough to cozy up to ‘Ollie’ that one time. Something you probably regret then, I suppose.” He still doesn’t look at me, and his tone is bitter.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think that you wanted to talk to me ever again.” I whisper.

 

“Well,” he says, standing up. “I’m going to fail my Charms O.W.L.S. if I don’t study, so what I want or wanted isn’t really important right now.” He says coldly.

 

“Are you still sick?” I ask, quiet, as if he’s a delicate porcelain object my grandmother gave me.

 

“It doesn’t just go away.” He shouts, trying to keep his voice down but not succeeding. “But I’m on new meds and I’ve been fine. Not that you’ve noticed.”

 

“Well I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, or help you.” I mutter.

 

He laughs, disbelieving of me. “Why does everyone think love can just save someone like me? It doesn’t work like that, Percy. Only _I_ can save me.”

 

“Did you say love? I never said I loved you.”

 

“Wow, I fucking know that you daft cow.” He says.

 

“Why are you being such a prick? Go back to your quidditch party, enjoy yourself. You look like you need it.”

 

He screws up his face and then shakes it off. He takes a deep breath, and another, and then one last one. “I don’t. I’m being a prick, by the way, because you left me. You haven’t spoken to me. And I need you.”

 

“I thought you said that you didn’t need anyone to take care of you.”

 

“This isn’t about me being sick. Just please… Please pretend that I’m, I don’t know, normal and unbroken for five seconds to let me say, that you can’t save me. But I need you.” He walks over and clamps his hands to the sides of my face, kissing me furiously. It’s always like this. He’s always angry. But I love him, I love him, I love him. And even though I know that I shouldn’t do this, I do. I let him do it too.

 

I let him take my shirt off and kiss me wherever he pleases. I let him undo my belt and push me onto a bed that I’m not even sure belongs to one of us. I let him climb on top of me and slide his tongue into my mouth, and I feel good about it. He makes me feel so amazing. But there’s this feeling in the pit of my stomach that isn’t going away.

 

His breathing is heavy and loud as he kisses my hipbones and looks up at me with eyes so innocent, even though he’s not; what we’re doing isn’t.

 

“Oliver!” I gasp as he gets to the predicted conclusion of his kissing. My fingers grip the sheets tightly and, though I try not to, I moan.

 

Through my pure bliss the difficulties of real life are blurred. At the moment, I do not live in a world where Oliver is sick, or where we’ve been apart for a year, or where the first time we kissed he punched me in the face. I’m asleep, dreaming. All there is, is me and Oliver. And we are perfect when we are ignorant.

 

Pouncing on my body, Oliver digs his teeth into my shoulder and I try to suppress a yelp, but Oliver moves my hand and whispers into my ear. “No one can hear us. They’re all celebrating.”

 

So I listen, and I let myself be as loud as I want as Oliver kisses my neck and nips at my ear.

 

The roars from downstairs distract me, but I push them out. I’ve never cared for quidditch parties, and it’s not like I’m missing anything, when the only thing I could miss is right here with his body pressed against mine.

 

Oliver moans in between kisses, and then he pulls away and looks at me. The moment seems to be over as the look in his eyes shift from the sort of look you give whilst shagging, to something more serious and afraid. “Do you know what would happen to me if anyone found out about this?”

 

It sounds like it’s a bit of a rhetorical question, so I just look at him.

 

“They would all look at me strange. And that would be fine, I wouldn’t care. But then they’d beat the shit out you, and I’d have to beat the shit out of them. And they’d never let me play professional quidditch, not even on the reserve team.”

 

“If you’re worried about me telling, I won’t.” I say, a bit more bitter than I mean it. “They wouldn’t want the next Minster for Magic to be into men, of course.”

 

“But you are, aren’t you? Always.”

 

“Yes. I can’t pretend like you.”

 

“I don’t, I’m also into women. Some people are just like that. In fact I don’t really have a preference, for me it’s just about finding someone who wants to shag.”

 

“Why don’t you want a relationship then? I mean, we’re sixteen.”

 

He sighs and rubs his eyes. “Clearly you’ve learned nothing.” He says. “Everyone _always_ tries to fix me. That just doesn’t happen. I don’t want to love someone if they don’t think that I’m absolutely perfect, even if I can’t always function properly.”

 

“Function properly? You have a mood disorder, not brain cancer.”

 

“Shut the fuck up Percy!” He shouts, pushing me away, grabbing his clothing and dressing himself. “You can’t love me if you think that I need to be fixed. I’m just fine being damaged goods.”

 

“Oliver, didn’t you friggin’ hear what I said. I told you that you _could_ and _do_ function properly, not that you’re broken. You aren’t, but you keep telling yourself that!”

 

“What do you fucking know?” He asks. “We shag once and you think that you know me better than I do.”

 

“We’ve known each other for six years! I don’t think I know you better than you do, but your judgement seems pretty clouded right now.”

 

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” He says under his breath, looking down as he buttons his shirt. “I’m going back to my studying. You should probably leave.”

 

So I put on my clothes and start to leave, but after I close the door of the dorm behind me, I impulsively open it again and slide back into the room. “Can I just ask you one thing?” I shout angrily into the dark.

 

“What?” Oliver whispers bitterly.

 

“If you were just going to shout at me when we weren’t even done shagging, why did you shag me?”

 

“Keep your voice down!” He shushes me.

 

“No one can hear us. They’re celebrating.”

 

“Because, like I said, I need you.”

 

“Then fucking have me, here I am! But if you say you need me, you need to need all of me. I’m not going to be your little bitch dog, or your little puppet that’ll do anything you say. If you really need me, you wouldn’t use me just to yell at me afterwards.”

 

“I yelled at you because I can’t have you.” He tells me all of a sudden, looking down in shame. “I didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow morning, filled with regret. I didn’t want you to scrub every inch of your body in disgust. I didn’t want you to avoid ever glance I sent your way. I push people away, it’s what I do. I get scared when people get too close.”

 

“Are you lying to me, or is that the truth?” I ask bitterly.

 

Tears creep out of his eyes and roll down his pale face. “It’s the truth.”

 

“I wouldn’t have regretted you. But it would have been much nicer to wake up in your arms if you hadn’t shouted.”

 

“I’m sorry that I did, it was unwarranted and crazy.”

 

“Let’s just restart.” I say, as calmly as possible. He gets up and walks over to me slowly. I feel his warm hand wrap around mine. “Admit that you are not broken, and I won’t try to save you.”

 

“But, I can’t do that.”

 

“Oliver,” I look at him pointedly.

 

He squeezes my hand. “I’m not broken.”

 

I know that I should stop this. You can’t make other people happy, they just need to do it for themselves. I need to wake up, I need to see that this will hurt both of us. I would never have had to deal with this if it weren’t for the fact that a bludger hit the Slytherin seekers broom before he could grab the snitch and win the quidditch game.

 

If it weren’t for that idiotic 3:30AM victory party, I would be wide awake.

This never would have happened.

But as it is, my eyes are closed and I cannot see reality.

I cannot see all of the danger.

I sleep with no consequences.

But one day, it will go up in smoke.

And I’ll wake up in a bed of ramifications.

 


End file.
